The Radicals
by MilitiasPoeta
Summary: Begun for Barricade Day 2015. Rated for mild language and violence. A group of tight-knit friends find themselves being torn apart by war, by addiction, and by their own actions. The Revolution will prevail. Modern AU.
1. Barricade Day

"These rebels are ruthless. They live to stir up trouble. As we are fighting the chaos that they bring - that idealized 'freedom', we must show them no mercy, because it would not be shown likewise. They are murderers and theives, all. Take no chances. Spare no lives. Order is more important than a few schoolboys who think they know what is best."

\

The rain was trickling down outside of the Café Musain, much to Joly's chagrin.

"Are you sure we have to go outside?" questioned he from the depths of his enormous coat.

"Yeah, that's what Enj said," Bossuet replied as he leaned against the door next to Courfeyrac, who was fidgeting impatiently beside the aforementioned hypochondriac Joly.

"And then what?" continued Joly. This was the third time he had asked the question.

Bossuet sighed. "We get the signal from Combeferre, evacuate the building, seize the furniture, then join capital R and Bahorel on the Rue de Chanvrerie, just over there."

"Sounds good."

"Does it?" Courfeyrac, who had since been silent with anticipation, spoke up. He looked somberly at Joly. "You're going to be handling dozens of chairs, tables."

Bossuet endeavoured to stop him, but to no avail.

Courfeyrac continued. "Chairs that people have sat on. Tables that people have eaten on."

Joly stared wide-eyed into the busy room, surveying the patrons.

"I'm beginning to rethink this revolution thing," he started...

"Don't you dare," Bossuet replied good-naturedly, slapping Courfeyrac's arm playfully. "Just my luck that my best friend is a hypochondriac, germophobe and goodness knows what else."

"It's a wonder you and Musichetta put up with him."

"I know, right? Go figure."

"Hey," alerted Joly, standing up straighter. He had spotted Enjolras and Combeferre, their commander and his right-hand-man, approach the Rue de Chanvrerie through the left window of the café. Enjolras' hand rested on his jacket pocket, underneath his scarf. The pocket contained a bulge which was most definitely a pistol.

"Jehan's up next," Bossuet muttered, referring to the three young men's friend, who sat at a small round table across from the window in the left wall. He was currently staring at the said window, a massive notebook at his elbow.

As he and Enjolras waited to cross the street, Combeferre lifted a hand as if to wave.

At this signal, Jehan hurriedly rose from his table, and made his way across the crowded room. He, with many 'pardon me's, eventually reached the center and lifted his voice.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if I could please have your attention," said the poet gently, but he was, unfortunately, ignored. The teenager adjusted his glasses and even tried to straighten his tie, which was already irredeemably askew.

"Please, everyone," he said a bit louder.

"Why in the name of sanity did we pick Jehan for this job?" asked Courfeyrac rhetorically. He pushed off from the doorway and made his path to the center of the room beside Jehan.

"Mesdames, monsieurs," Courfeyrac said in a loud voice, but was inevitably talked over.

"Listen, everybody!" Jehan yelled, quieting the clientele with those two simple words.

Courfeyrac nodded his thanks to his skinny friend, then continued. "All right, if I could please get everyone to exit the building? Quietly? Quickly? Calmly? Along with other 'Q' adverbs? My friends and I would greatly appreciate it."

"Courf, 'calmly' doesn't start with 'Q'..." Jehan whispered, but was promptly cut off by the voice of a large man in his late thirties.

"What if we don't?" said the man, his eyes darting to Bossuet and Joly, who stood on either side of the door, seemingly standing guard, although they were simply standing there because that is the easiest place to stand when one is ushering approximately 100 people out of a room. If Joly was malicious in appearance, it would have been because he, wrapped in his gargantuan coat, still percieved a chill in the air, and was crossing his arms, as well as stuffing his chin into his collar. Bossuet, being tall, nearly six feet in height, strong, and bald, does not require an explanation.

"Well, I guess you're all gonna have to eat your meals chairless and tableless," Courfeyrac quipped, laughing nervously.

Madame Houcheloup, the proprietor of Le Café Musain, rushed out from the kitchen as Courfeyrac made this announcement.

"Now you're stealing the furniture?" she shouted at the curly-haired youth. "You and your friends, you take up the whole back room with your meetings, your loud talking, and your drinking! Now you're taking something that I need to make an actual living, which is hard to come by after Monsieur Houcheloup died, and you're being all polite about it like it's the most normal thing in the world! Just as you're being so nice, Monsieur de Courfeyrac, would you like anything else? A baguette, maybe?"

"A baguette would be lovely," Courfeyrac said shakily, recieving in turn a dark look from the fiery middle-aged woman.

Jehan, who had just glanced at the wall clock above Bossuet and Joly's heads, tapped Courfeyrac on the shoulder.

"It's nearly time." he whispered. At that exact moment, a strong voice rang out over the Rue de Chanvrerie.

"Citizens!" said the voice, "People! For years the government has oppressed us! They have said that it is for our own benefit, but what have we gained? More importantly, what have we suffered? Every day, men, honest men, have been taken from their homes simply for saying a wrong word! People just like you, imprisoned for years, and the crime that they commited was no more than stealing a loaf of bread! I say, no more, citizens! Remember General Lamarque, the one who stood for us! Remember our heritage! Remember France! Vive l'France!"

The four friends recognized the voice of their leader. At the word 'citizens', all heads turned to look out the large front window. There they saw Enjolras perched on the massive uncut stone monument that accentuated the turn. Combeferre stood by his side, just a little lower on the rough rock, and Feuilly on the sidewalk.

Several comments circulated the room simultaneously.

"He's insane."

"Who is that? Is that Régis Enjolras from the university? He always got such good marks."

"Vive l'France? Why is he using such old expressions?"

"He's an archaeist."

"More like an anarchist."

"His friends call him Apollo, what do you expect?"

As Enjolras, Combeferre, and Feuilly stood there, a policeman emerged from a building across the street. He was speaking fervently into a radio communiator.

"Oh, no," Courfeyrac muttered.

"We've gotta do it now," Jehan said.

"But what about R and Bahorel?" Joly asked.

"We'll have to get everyone out first; they'll have time." Bossuet assured him.

Jehan nodded, and began to independently yank people from their seats. "Out, out, out," he commanded the indignant patrons.

Cries of "Vive l'France!" made it to the amis' ears from the road.

"Did the madman actually manage to stir up a commotion?" A portly rich woman who had just been violently thrusted from her meal blustered.

"For your information, milady," Joly returned politely as he escorted her out the door, "he's not mad, he's just a bit worked up. It will pass, I'm sure."

"When will it pass?" she asked, still indignant.

"Um... well, it's been around for about six years now, so it will have to work its way out of his system relatively soon."

That seemed to console her.

More, and louder, shouts filtered into the café.

Most of the customers had exited the building at this point, so Bossuet, Joly, Jehan, and Courfeyrac began to throw furniture out of the doors and windows. They were soon assisted by a few random men who had heard the rally, and came to their aid with vigor. Madame Houcheloup, flustered beyond belief, had finally given up shouting abuse at Courfeyrac and had retreated into the back room, where she and the two waitresses closed and locked the door.

"Where are they?" Joly yelled, his words pertaining to their friends Grantaire and Bahorel, who were waiting in an alleyway with an old car, which they would drive into the relatively narrow Rue de Chanvrerie and block up traffic, allowing the four amis in the café to bring the furniture.

"They can't be too long!" Bossuet answered as he helped push a table out of the door.

Sure enough, a dinged-up vehicle swerved into the road during a lull in the traffic, successfully stopping all of the other cars, whose drivers cursed at Grantaire.

"Pardon me!" the drunkard (who was, fortunately, not drunk at this time) waved cheerfully at them, a cigarette in the fingers of his right hand. "Didn't see you there!" he smiled disarmingly as he and Bahorel hopped out of the parked automobile.

A small gang of furniture theives gathered around the car and began to stack their spoils of war. This gang included the four amis that we have seen pictured in the café.

"About time, R," Courfeyrac nudged Grantaire jovially with the broken leg of a barstool.

Feuilly ran across the street, dodging honking cars and disgruntled pedestrians. He led Combeferre and Enjolras, the latter of which was now holding his pistol in his hand unashamedly. His dark red scarf untied, his brown leather jacket unzipped, golden hair flying, he looked wild. Wild and dangerous.

Combeferre kept pace with Enjolras, his wire-rimmed spectacles (because in the case of Combeferre, one can only call them this aged term) slightly leaning to the left. He, like Enjolras, bore a solemn expression that instantly supressed any assumption that this escapade might be 'fun'.

Feuilly tumbled around the car, slamming into a fellow workman who happened, at that particular time, to be carrying single-handedly and with difficulty, a large table. Immediately Feuilly began to help, and the two of them with ease pushed the slab of wood into a space in the giant furniture wall that had coalesced around Grantaire's car.

Enjolras and Combeferre clambered over a chair, panting and sweating even though the fall air was still cool and breezy.

"Do you have the weapons?" Enjolras asked Grantaire.

Bahorel, having heard the question, answered it by drawing out a large bundle of them from the battered backseat.

"Good."

Combeferre dropped down beside his best friend, looking at something on his smartphone.

"'Pollo, we have ten units mobilizing fast," he said.

Enjolras was startled. "How do you know that? Police movement is confidential."

Combeferre showed him the screen. "'Taire hacked them."

"Huh." Enjolras studied the app.

"I know what you're thinking," Grantaire raised an eyebrow and blew out a puff of smoke.

Enjolras glared at him. "What am I thinking?"

"You're silently thanking me."

This was exactly what Enjolras was thinking.

"You," he pointed at Grantaire, "Stay out of the way."

Without another word, Enjolras jumped onto the roof of the car and fired off three successive shots.

"Let them come."


	2. How This Mess Began

**Well. Hello again. I am not dead, as you now see. Probably everyone who was following this story doesn't really care anymore. It's been a while since I updated (or, tried to update). For that I apologize. It's been two years. My goodness. Anyway. Here's the next chapter. Thank you all.**

_Four Years Earlier_

When Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac entered the Musain, they soon found that finding a seat would be the greatest obstacle to their customary night out. They observed this night out religiously, taking great care to schedule one each and every week. It was a constant. The college freshmen needed this constant to continue to be sane throughout the hectic second semester.

"The place is teeming," Combeferre observed with a sense of terrified awe. The three teenagers hesitated by the door expectantly, as an obviously annoyed waitress shoved through the huddle that blocked the airway.

Enjolras shook his curly hair free of the cold rain that had pelted them as they had walked from the dorms all the way to the restaurant. "Teeming with what, may I ask?"

"Vermin," Courfeyrac spat.

"My, my, Jean Courfeyrac," quipped Combeferre in a faux British lilt. "What brings on this foul mood, my friend?"

"The foul weather, _friend_," Courfeyrac returned hotly. "I'm freezing. Do you see me? Do you see this?" He pulled at his thin maroon sweater that was completely soaked through with precipitation. "And neither of you offered me your coat, you ungentlemanly freaks."

"I thought you could deal with a bit of rain," Enjolras replied, concerned.

"He can," Combeferre reassured, "He's just being overdramatic. Aren't you, Courf? You can't expect any less from a theater major."

"That is correct," Courfeyrac grumbled. The lanky youth ran his fingers through curls the color of chocolate, then gingerly slid off his sweater. As he did so, his continuous cry of "Cold, cold, cold, cold," deeply confused the patrons in the nearby vicinity of the conversation.

Upon inspection, Courfeyrac's v-neck tee beneath his outerwear was only slightly damp, so the teen relaxed, content. Meanwhile, Combeferre had been scouting the area to find an open table. There were none to be found.

"Maybe upstairs?" Enjolras suggested. Though the trio had not yet visited this cafe on any of their weekly outings, it was well known in the Quarter that although the lower floor was often crowded, the upper rooms were calmer. Apparently the liquor served at the bar upstairs was horrific, and this deterred customers from venturing to that region. This information did not affect Enjolras, as he did not drink out of fear that he would temporarily lose his faculty of thinking - a prospect that terrified him to the bone. Combeferre, likewise, did not drink. This was due to his strict adherence to the rules set in place, though he was indeed a radical and rebellious in spirit.

Courfeyrac drank.

Just not in public.

So the three students climbed the tiny stairwell precariously, feeling their footfalls creak riskily as they ascended. Tiny windows every few steps showed them the charcoal city of Paris, tiny fires of lightbulbs dotting the soaring landscape in every direction, the mountains to the north barely visible behind clouds made of the steam of life.

At one point, Enjolras stopped behind Courfeyrac as they passed one of these openings. He pressed his fingertips briefly against the pane, mist rising at the touch.

"This is my city."

Courfeyrac and Combeferre did not hear his words - they had gone on ahead. He was grateful for their ignorance of his sentimentality. He didn't know them quite well enough yet to trust them with the carefully cultivated emotion that he had brought with him from Arras. Paris was his city. France, his nation. He owned these pieces of land just as they owned him. Combeferre and Courfeyrac were his companions that he had known for only six months of his meager existence. He was not sure yet that he could trust them with his innermost thoughts, however simple his musings might be. They were his fellows, his comrades - but were they yet his friends?

"Enjolras!" Courfeyrac called cheerily from the top of the stairwell, "Have you fallen and died? We would greatly miss you if you have done so, but since I have heard no cry of pain, I assume that you are simply being a bore."

"Imbecile," Enjolras whispered with tenderness.

"What was that insult I just heard you softly say?" Courfeyrac shouted at the top of his lungs.

"I'm coming, you idiot," Enjolras called. He leaped the stairs two at a time to reach the top, coming face-to-face with a damp, beaming Courfeyrac, and a half-smiling Combeferre sitting at a small three-chair table that was shoved haphazardly against the wall. A diminutive, curly-haired waitress stood by the table, one hand on her hip. Her coffee-colored face was hardened in an expression of mild disdain as her gaze traversed the few patrons that remained under the dim lighting.

"Sorry, ma'am," Enjolras murmured to her as he slid into a chair by the wall. This left Courfeyrac with the seat that jutted out into the room. His expression indicated that he did not enjoy this arrangement, but flopped into the seat nonetheless. The disdainful waitress looked Courfeyrac in the eye until he reluctantly sat up straight and brought himself to stop fidgeting.

"It's all right, sir," The waitress said graciously to Enjolras. "Now, what can I get you boys?"

Combeferre slid his glasses off so that he could glance at the menu briefly. "A pepperoni pizza for the table, thanks. And a coke on ice for me, please."

"Water," Enjolras continued shortly.

"Sprite with vodka," Courfeyrac demanded brashly. Combeferre's eyes suddenly went wide, as he replaced his glasses in order to stare Courfeyrac down with eyes that burned like the sun. Enjolras waited expectantly for the waitress to scoff at Courfeyrac's request, but she simply nodded and turned to go get their orders. Enjolras and Combeferre stared at Courfeyrac with a mixture of disbelief, amusement, and disapproval.

"Are you crazy," Combeferre said. It was not a question.

"Yes. I am crazy," Courfeyrac chuckled. "I know that girl. She thinks I'm over twenty-one, trust me. I think she likes me, to be honest."

"Yeah, right," an unknown voice scoffed from a table over. "She's taken, kiddo, calm yourself." The man who spoke was covered in shadow that emanated from the broken bulb, hanging like a condemned criminal above his head.

"Oh, and how do you know?" Courfeyrac snapped. "Are _you _her lover, mister?"

"Please don't," Combeferre groaned.

"No, hotshot, but I do _know_ her lover," said the man. He was significantly older than Courfeyrac, but still young. His thick, dark, tangled hair hung in clumps over an emaciated face that seemed to hold a perpetual smirk in its half-lidded, dark-circled eyes. A long white scar reached from his right temple to his jawbone, and he looked dangerous. But he also looked irrevocably drunk. "And I know that if he catches you looking at Musichetta the wrong way, you'll be in for it."

"He'll be careful," Combeferre interjected, "Won't you, Courfeyrac?"

Courfeyrac fumed.

"I think that's a yes," The drunken man slurred as he took another sip of the bottle clutched in his hand. "Please resume whatever inane adolescent conversation you were engaging in."

Combeferre turned back to face Enjolras and Courfeyrac. The latter was still steaming, but Combeferre knew that the actor's temper would soon dissipate into stupidly innocent laughter. Not because of the vodka, no - because Courfeyrac could not help himself. The young man was perpetually high off of the drug of life. Such colors suited him well.

"What have you been studying?" Combeferre asked Enjolras with a twinkle in his dark green eyes. The passionate History/Political Science double major was perpetually obsessed with something other than his (rather boring) freshman curriculum.

"Ah," a ghost of a smile flickered over Enjolras' stern face. "I knew you'd ask," he prophesied as he pulled (seemingly out of nowhere) a hardcover tome whose page number most likely exceeded one thousand. Broad, bold letters on the cover and spine fairly yelled, _The Life of Napoleon._

"Oh, no," Combeferre laughed, sliding the volume over to his side of the table so that he could read the inside of the dust jacket.

"I hate him," Enjolras spat, "I absolutely hate him. The bastard. He takes the Revolution, everything that people like Marat and Robespierre had strived to build, and he uses it, tears it apart to serve his own personal ambition. It makes me sick."

"Enjolras, Napoleon has been dead for one hundred and ninety-six years." Combeferre indulged with a smile in his tone, "But I agree with your point. For the most part. Marat didn't truly strive to build anything, he really just had a vendetta against… I don't know. Everyone. There was some serious bloodlust involved. Have you read his writing?"

"But Robespierre. He wasn't moved by personal vendetta," Enjolras shot back.

"Isn't Napoleon that really super short guy?" Courfeyrac questioned ignorantly.

"How are you a Frenchman, but you don't know who Napoleon is?" Enjolras asked, bewildered.

Silence fell as Courfeyrac and Combeferre stared at each other.

"I'm not French," Courfeyrac said, "Didn't you know? I'm Spanish."

Enjolras was taken aback.

"Your French accent is remarkable." said Enjolras with deep surprise. "And it makes sense why you wouldn't know him quite as well."

"Yes, I just knew him as the short man who conquered things."

The drunk man from the table adjacent coughed conspicuously. "Actually, Napoleon wasn't all that short for his time period."

Enjolras set a cold gaze on the other man, who had so rudely interrupted their conversation once again. "And how would you know, sir? Were you there?"

"Obviously not," the loafer replied, "However, when one visits Les Invalides, which I have done at multiple occasions to study the art therein - The architecture at Les Invalides is spectacular - One quickly notices that Napoleon's coffin is roughly around five feet eight inches long. This can only mean that Napoleon himself was not very much shorter. Perhaps around five foot five or six. The size of a tall woman. Yes," The drunkard knocked back the dregs of his liquor, "Five foot five or six."

The three university students stared, in slight awe of the speech that had just been given, and in equal annoyance that the man had been allowed to interrupt their perfectly good conversation twice already.

"Sir," Combeferre began, clearing his throat, "What is your name?"

"Grantaire," the man rolled the R in his name, a peculiar light sneaking into his eyes. "My name's Grantaire. My friends call me R, like capital R? You know? Grand R? I think that's a clever pun. My friends think so too. Not that I have any friends. But if I did have friends, that's what they would call me."

Combeferre sniffed, pushing his glasses back to the bridge of his nose with an index finger. "Nice to meet you… Grantaire…"

"Don't wear it out," Grantaire suddenly snapped.

Enjolras, increasingly more perturbed, rose to his feet. He ignored Combeferre's questioning stare, walking with purpose to the place where Grantaire sat. The man was knocking back another glass of something foul-smelling, something intoxicating.

"What are you doing?" Enjolras hissed, "What are you doing with your life, Grantaire?"

Grantaire smirked. He set his empty glass on the edge of the table, leaned forward until his dark blue eyes met Enjolras' head on. He clenched his fists. "I don't see why that's any of your business, boy," he hissed back with just as much fire.

"You must have relatives or something. A girlfriend, even. What would they think of you drinking yourself away in here? This isn't the first time, right?"

Combeferre was shaking his head out of the corner of Enjolras' eye, trying to get him to stop and think about what he was saying, doing. Enjolras was prying into unknown territory with a man who they didn't know. Didn't know what he was capable of.

Enjolras ignored him.

Grantaire stood up, every limb rigid. "Why do you care?"

"I don't," Enjolras spat. The golden-haired fellow resumed his seat abruptly, having angered someone he knew he should not anger.

The three pairs of eyes were only on Grantaire as he stalked out of the room like a hyena. He threw his coat on, and it was only when the door savagely slammed that the three students could breathe easily again.

"What the hell do you think you were doing?" Courfeyrac screeched.

"I don't know," Enjolras admitted.

"I really don't know."


End file.
